


Soleil d'or

by SherlockMalfoy



Series: Sherlock!Wizardverse Drabbles - General [18]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Father and Son, Gen, Roses, Sentiment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 08:01:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockMalfoy/pseuds/SherlockMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of a dementor and dark wizard attack on Potter-Malfoy manor, Draco finds Sherlock in the rose garden conservatory. Father and son discuss sentiment while Sherlock admires a rose that reminds him of the desert. Of John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soleil d'or

  
The rose garden in the conservatory had always been one of Sherlock’s favorite places as a boy. When he wasn’t playing pirates, practicing his wandless magic, or memorizing books in the family library, he would be among the roses. Just… sitting. He would study them, of course. But some how they were relaxing, and sitting among them helped to still his ever moving thoughts. Quiet his mind.  
        He smiled. Not a large one. Just a small upward twitch at the corners of his mouth as he realized he gained that same sense of peace from his John. Yes, **his** because from the start he made it rather difficult for the man to be someone else’s.  
        Now, after so many decades, the once perfectly manicured plants were overgrown. Climbing the walls and the windows alike. Wild. Like himself.  
        “Your mother lost the will to tend them after the… unpleasantness.”  
        He didn’t turn around from the particular plant he had begun admiring. “Rosa foetida,” Sherlock said as if he hadn’t even noticed the other man’s words. He reached out a hand to cup one of the pale orange-yellow flowers. His fingertips brushing the soft, velvety petals. “This particular plant is the Soleil d’or.”  
        Draco watched him, listened to him rattle off what he knew of the flower simply from what he had learned. And the health of the plant simply from what he observed before him. The older wizard noticed, too, the gentle way in which his son handled the flowers of the plant. Where as a child he would pluck them without a thought, to study and examine and then catelogue away… now he stood and admired them. He noted, also, that of all the multitude of now wild roses growing in the conservatory and of all the vibrant and lush colors… it was to such a drab, dull color to which he was attracted.  
        The silence was heavy and awkward, broken only by the sounds of the two men’s breathing.  
        Finally, Sherlock spoke, ashen eyes trained on the flowers in front of him. “John has asked that I not pursue Parkinson, nor Lady Moran. That I leave the situation in my brother’s hands.”  
        “You do not trust your brother to do this.”  
        “He is the reason I was forced to stage my death. Had he not betrayed me to my enemy-“  
        Draco said, moving to stand beside his son. “You would to well to listen to John.”  
        Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eye. “John is an idiot.”  
        “Almost everyone is,” Draco replied, gray eyes cutting over to look back at him. They stood like this a few moments longer. A silent conversation of mental deduction. Each man breaking the other into neat, perfect little categories. At last, Sherlock could no longer meet his gaze and turned his attention back to the roses. Again, he reached out to cup one of the Soleil d’or. “I learned to appreciate these flowers in my time of exile. The coloring is… a particular palette I’ve found myself fond of.”  
        Draco need not ask which period of time Sherlock had meant. His years away from his family, away from his father, were viewed by the younger man as freedom rather than banishment and exile. No, he spoke of the three years of walking death. “Sentiment,” Draco said. “I was not aware you recognized such ideals.”  
        At this, the corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upwards again. “It is possible, father,” he began, letting his fingers slide down the stem of the rose he admired. The pads of his index and middle finger brushing lightly against the thorns. “To acknowledge sentiment for one’s match even when one does not fully understand such base emotions.” He pressed his thumb against the stem, holding it between his fingers. A gentle tug, a wandless and silent cutting spell thought up, and the flower came free from the plant. “After all, you and mother have never understood your fondness for fighting and hexing one another. Yet you both have come to accept it as a sign of your affections.”  
        With that, the detective brought the flower to his nose and turned to go, inhaling the scent as he thought to ask John if it would be apropriate to give Mrs. Hudson a small rose bush as a belated holiday gift. Not this particular species, of course. The Soleil d’or was reserved for thoughts of John and John alone.  
        Perhaps something with a little more red, or violet.


End file.
